


Lost in Balms

by fabula_prima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fantasizing, Literary References & Allusions, Masturbation, One Shot, Short One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: Charlotte has a free afternoon in her office. The ever-present Knight in her life has her distracted and he doesn't even know.





	Lost in Balms

**Author's Note:**

> Taken from the [Felix Culpa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951835/chapters/27022515) universe, in which Cullen ends up in our world and Charlotte Trevi is the unsuspecting English professor who ends up watching out for him. Inspired by the prompt: masturbation in a place where she could be caught.

Four in the afternoon. Charlotte’s corner office–which really ought to belong to higher ranking faculty–bathes in golden light as she finalizes tomorrow’s lecture. Emily Dickinson. A sister in arms; in souls, more accurately. Repressed women, seeking themselves in words. Ah, but did Em ever find herself responsible for a man like Cullen? Em had no experience in such matters, but oh the poems she would have written about Ser Knight…

Charlotte flips the page of the anthology, discovers a new treasure, unread, unmarked:

> Come slowly – Eden!   
>  Lips unused to Thee –   
>  Bashful – sip thy Jessamines –   
>  As the fainting Bee –
> 
> Reaching late his flower,   
>  Round her chamber hums –   
>  Counts his nectars –   
>  Enters – and is lost in Balms.

The room glows gilt and hazy in the late afternoon sun, smells of oranges and black pepper and Charlotte notices she’s curled her toes. She lingers on the phrase  _Lips unused_ …Ser Knight’s lips unused, hers unused to his. They are fine lips, she decides, and in them contained a thousand smirks. No doubt a thousand thousand kisses, but for whom? Does he have a lover at home? A swooning damsel, a warrior maiden? How must it feel to be Ser Knight’s lover? Gooseflesh rises at the question and the thought of his kisses, to her own lips, in the warmth of her hair, against her neck. Does he nip? she wonders. Tender little marks, she supposes, and he leaves them against his better judgement. A willful kisser, she imagines him to be. Courteous and generous and  _hungry_ , but an expert in self-restraint. She imagines, for an instant, that he devours her in the heady afternoon ether, but decides: no–he  _tastes_. He puts both of his hands–god, what those medieval, hardworking hands must surely be capable of–on her waist and holds firm, sets her on the desk, amidst midterms and syllabi and letters of recommendation and spreads her knees with his own legs. Or maybe pressed against the stacks of the library until she’s spine-to-spine with encyclopedias and her hands are tucked into the back of his waistband, seeking the firm curve of his ass. She takes a deep breath and curses herself for not locking the door. But office hours are over, and the lecturers next door have left for the day. The heat of the room, the high collar of her blouse are stifling, so she undoes the top two buttons. How much more satisfying it would be if it were Ser Knight’s fingers loosening them. Are his fingertips calloused from years of rough work? Perhaps they’re surprisingly soft against the hollows of her neck, the ridge of her collarbone, against the plush swelling undercurve of her breast. Her breath gets deeper, warmth puddles in her belly, between her legs. She thinks of his fingers, thick but surprisingly elegant. Long fingers, pleased to feel her slick and swollen. She reaches her own hand under her skirt and shocks herself, nearly gasps at the touch. Can’t stop thinking of his mouth, hot and doting against her neck, around her nipple. When did she palm her breast? How long has she been keening into it? Was it with the imagined whispery groans of his approval? The  _you feel so good, so fucking good…so love-ly_  as he traces knuckles against her lips, the lower or the pair shaped around a stunned cry, it doesn’t matter, not really. She just wants to feel his hands on her.

_But how does he fuck?_  Is he shy and gentle, like he is with everything else? Does he lay her head down carefully, caress her face with his thumb, guide himself in with care and restraint, and make slow love? Until everything is warm and languid and sweet kisses? Or does he take her from behind, overwhelmed by his own aching, so that her ass is flush against the flat plane of his pelvis and his hands reach around for aching breasts and a pearled clit? Is it desperate, his love? Does it press hard and sharp into her, begging to be closer, even closer, deeper until everything is white hot and weeping and bruised lips? She feels pressure building, quick imagined sensations. His sweat-beaded forehead, her neck stretched bare to him, his abdomen clenching underneath her fingers, her teeth latched tenderly to his earlobe, the feel of his breath like steam, her pleas to not stop, never stop, never go back. Sensations stacking on top of one another as if she’d dreamt all of this before, as if she’d been wishing for it since the moment she first found the mysterious sensation of her own release. She fills herself as best she can, two thin fingers masquerading as Ser Knight’s manhood and she giggles at the word for a moment, but it’s right. He is a  _man_ , god help her, a font of gallant masculinity and her end approaches at the thought. The shoulders, the back, the thighs of solid muscle, he is a man worthy of swooning, the only man she’d be willing to faint for, fall for, if only to end up in his strong arms. She comes apart deliciously, calves trembling, curling in on herself, longing for his embrace around her, Ser Knight’s embrace,  _Cullen’s_  embrace. And joyful. That’s how it would really be, she’s sure of it. Joyful, in the end, against so much gold light and steadiness.

She pries her eyes open, feels the blush across her cheeks. Carl opens the door, studies her face, asks for that copy of something or other she had agreed to loan him.

“I know what you were doing.” His voice is flat, not accusatory, just stating the truth. “You could have the real thing, y’know.” He leaves without a response and she’s still thrumming, buzzing and balmy.

She picks the anthology back up and flips to a new page, sees a final stanza:

> The Sunrise - Sir - compelleth Me–  
>  Because He’s Sunrise - and I see–  
>  Therefore - Then–  
>  I love Thee–

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the prompt, [Kagetsukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagetsukai)


End file.
